


neither mercy nor pardon, but justice

by joanofarcstan



Series: Tolkien Gen Week 2020 [4]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Light Angst, Tolkien Gen Week - Freeform, a conversation, earendil wants to be left alone, elwing is mentioned, like not much, note: the conversation is only taking place because finarfin wants to know things, very brief - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:00:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25171264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joanofarcstan/pseuds/joanofarcstan
Summary: Eärendil has made his case before the Valar, and now he is, more or less, sitting in peace by the Sea. Then someone comes along and (the horror) talks to him, but he supposes that not all disturbances are terrible.
Series: Tolkien Gen Week 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1818994
Comments: 7
Kudos: 41
Collections: Tolkien Gen Week 2020





	neither mercy nor pardon, but justice

_'Who are you, and what come you for?' they had asked him, and then stepped back in shock when he had said, voice as tired and ragged as his appearance, 'To beg for justice.'_

__

__

_Justice. Not mercy, not pardon (for you do not need to give pardon to give mercy)._ Justice.

Eärendil is tired. But he cannot rest now or here, while the Valar debate whether or not they will give their aid in the fight of Beleriand's Men and Elves against the single greatest—and perhaps only—force to threaten the very fabric of Arda. Something in his heart rails against the injustice of it all: why should the Men, who had no choice in living in Middle-Earth and had no part in the kinslayings have to answer for the crimes of a smaller part of the original host of Elves who crossed into Beleriand? But Eärendil is not a Vala, and he cannot force their hand any faster by dwelling on such thoughts, so he lets it dissipate, as crest-foam on the ocean's waves return to the water.

Some will say that to send a host to Middle-Earth now is to aid and abet the crimes of the kinslayers who lie under ban of ever returning West for those very crimes, but Eärendil, who has had his own people slaughtered by those same kinslayers, would not wish Morgoth's rule on even them.

Someone sits down next to him. He is too tired to say anything, so he keeps staring at the Sea.

(The Sea who has borne him this far, who welcomed his wife with open arms and then returned her to him in the form of a bird, who has sheltered his people from the fires of Angband with her fierce, salt-soaked arms. Eärendil has known neither peace nor mercy through his years, and knows not if he has faith in the Powers, though they are right there; but he thinks that perhaps the Sea has been the closest thing to a comfort he can wrap around himself like a quilt that he has ever known.)

'Will you not take rest for yourself?' asks the stranger by his side, and all Eärendil can think of is how rude he is for interrupting tranquil, albeit uselessly meandering thoughts.

'My wife is resting,' he says distantly, eyes still fixed on the Sea. He wonders if the Sea will allow him to cross back, or if she will force him to remain on these shores forever, parted from his children and people?

His children. The thought of the boys—six or seven years old if his counting by Arien remains right—sends a pang of regret, then terror through his heart. _Are they alive?_ The Havens were sacked and its inhabitants slaughtered—surely even the kinslayers would not murder _children_ —

'They did not on these shores,' the stranger (still there, damn him) says. 'I cannot speak for what they have done or become in Beleriand, but Alqualondë's small mercy was that no children were among the dead.'

That makes Eärendil look up. 'What?' He takes in the sight of this golden-haired stranger whose eyes shine with a strange (ha, a stranger with strange eyes, his exhaustion-addled mind thinks) power and wisdom, yet kindness that can be none other than the vaunted light of the Trees Eärendil has never seen. He thinks that perhaps he has seen this Elf before, but cannot place where.

The stranger's brows furrow in concern or confusion. Eärendil cannot tell. 'You spoke of your sons, and said that surely even kinslayers would not murder children. Are you all right?' His concern seems genuine.

'Ah,' Eärendil says numbly. He must have said all that out loud. 'Who are you?' It is rather brusque, but he is too tired to be civil to a meddling stranger who _still_ won't leave.

The stranger takes the question all too easily. He introduces himself as an Arafinwë son of Finwë, but it is not until he mentions that his son (whoever that is) has told him that he is probably better known in Beleriand as Finarfin that Eärendil's tired mind starts to put the pieces together.

Ah. Finarfin, king of the Ñoldor in Aman. Finarfin… his son… wait, more than one… if he guesses right…

'Gil-galad.'

The stranger—Finarfin—blinks. 'I beg your pardon?'

Eärendil shakes his head. 'Sorry,' he mutters. 'Gil-galad, your…' At some point he gives up on trying to remember the family tree, and just says, '—your relative. Orodreth's son.' That is the one from whom he remembers Finarfin's face.

Finarfin blinks again. 'Orodreth's son?' He stares at Eärendil more, as if that will give him an answer. 'I thought he had a daughter.'

Eärendil shrugs. Daughter, son, whatever. He doesn't know. 'Guess he had a son too, then.'

'How is he?'

Another shrug. 'High King of the Ñoldor.' A pause. 'In Beleriand.' Thankfully, Finarfin seems to sense his reluctance to talk about this, or anything about Beleriand really, and doesn't press him for more details. Small mercies.

But then Finarfin asks another damn question. 'So you are he who sailed here to ask the Valar for aid?'

Eärendil stares at the waves. They are endless, the only constant in this new, foreign land full of people (yes, he is taking Finarfin as a representative sample, what of it) who keep talking to people who clearly do not want to be talked to. 'For justice.' Now he waits for the rebuke that this is not _justice_ , this is _pardon_ , or worse, _mercy_.

But Finarfin does not stay with the script. 'I am sorry. For justice,' he says, and somehow it is sincere.

Eärendil is too tired to respond with anything other than a hum of acknowledgement, as interesting as this development—the High King of the Ñoldor (in Aman) agreeing with him that this proposed war would be justice and not some great, magnanimous mercy to an undeserving, criminal people—is. And finally, _finally_ Finarfin takes the hint and falls silent, although he unfortunately does not leave Eärendil in peace.

At least it is nice to know that there is someone on his side in this new, foreign land of people who (sometimes) keep talking to people who clearly do not want to be talked to. Small—although this is far greater than _small_ , but that would ruin the saying—mercies.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! as always, comments are welcome, here or on my tumblr @[laurierliberal](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/laurierliberal)!


End file.
